Little Monkey
by SylviaBronte
Summary: You're less than a day old, brand new in the big wide world. Even now you feel happiest in the comfort of your mother's arms, the gentle beat of her heart when she holds you to her chest is more soothing than any lullaby. She smiles as she looks down upon you, and kisses your forehead. "Leo, my sweet little monkey." / The origin story of Leo Fitz.


**AN: I'm so happy to have finally finished this! It's taken forever, and I still haven't actually finished beta-ing it. This is a little sadder in places than I thought it would be, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. This is also my first time writing with a second person narrative, so please ignore any errors because I've already caught myself switching to third person a few time. I think I've caught myself each time, but there's bound to be something that slips under the radar!**

**This story carries a trigger warning for death, mild child abuse, and a mention of past sexual abuse.**

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You're less than a day old, brand new in the big wide world. Even now you feel happiest in the comfort of your mother's arms, the gentle beat of her heart when she holds you to her chest is more soothing than any lullaby. Your father has been in and out, making phonecalls mostly. She smiles as she looks down upon you, and kisses your forehead. "Leo, my sweet little monkey."

You're two years old, and it seems as though everybody that meets you falls in love with you. With big blue eyes and a mess of blonde curls, it's hard not to. You're a very happy, curious child. You still rarely stray from your mother's side, but you're working on it. There are occasional arguments that you overhear between your parents - he's not home enough due to work, but you're too young to understand that. Besides, everything is okay most of the time. You're still your mother's little monkey, and your father's little man.

You're three years old. Your father has taken up night shifts in an attempt to spend more time with you, so most of the time he isn't around to say goodnight. However, your mother loves nothing more than to tuck you in at night, read you stories, and sing you to sleep. One night, she decides to record 'bed-time', mostly for your father's benefit and also for the memories. After messing around with tickling you and blowing raspberries on your tummy, she tucks you in and reads you a story. She sings you to sleep with _You Are My Sunshine_, your favourite song. "Goodnight, little monkey," she whispers, leaving you with your nightlight and your coveted stuffed monkey, sleeping soundly.

You're five years old, and you and your mother are still joined at the hip. You've started school, but your shyness prevents you from making friends and maintaining a relationship with any of the children in your class. Of course, you cried your eyes out on the first day. Even bringing in George the monkey didn't help you, and all the kids laughed. You take a long time to settle, but it takes the teachers no time at all to figure out that you are an extremely intelligent, advanced child. Despite the fact that you enjoy learning, you have other things to worry about. Your mother starts going to the see the family doctor more often, and then a different doctor in a big hospital. You sometimes hear her cry, and part of you wonders if it's your fault. As a result of both your near-constant worrying and your deep attachment to your mother, you become a very anxious child. Even more so when her hair starts falling out.

You're seven years old, and you're wrapped up in your mother's arms. You rest your head against her chest, the gentle beat of her heart is still more soothing than any lullaby has ever been. Really, you don't fully understand what's going on. All you're aware of is that your mother is unwell, and needs to stay in the hospital for a while. You visit her with your father, every day after school and you spend all of your weekends with her. Her hair is finally starting to grow back, which is a sign to you that she might just be getting better. Your own hair is no longer platinum blonde, it's darkening to slightly more of a mousy colour - but you still have your mother's curls. You've got little ringlets just past your ears, and it's always been a constant debate between your parents over when you need haircuts; your mother loves your hair at its current length, but your father thinks it should be cut short. Currently, she's winning. But there aren't any arguments anymore, everything is peaceful... but something still doesn't quite feel right. Your mother holds you longer, tells you more, and you make sure to do the same. You tell her everything: your newfound love of science, your obsession with monkeys, and you tell her about this fantastic television programme called _Doctor Who_. She listens intently, praises you on your vast, often beyond-your-years knowledge. What you love most of all is when she holds you, because she's comforting and warm and always smells of lavender. You really don't know what you'd do without her.

You're still seven years old, and you're watching them lower your mother into a dark hole in the ground. You want to scream and cry, but you just _can't_. It's a dark, miserable day in more ways than one; and as you stand there, clutching an umbrella and wearing the smart black suit your father bought for you (it's too long in the arms), you just know that nothing will ever be the same again. As soon as people return to your home for the funeral reception with you and your father, you run off upstairs and wrap yourself in your mother's old dressing gown. It still smells like her: lavender and something else you could never quite put your finger on. It hits you then, that she's gone and never coming back, and before you even realise what's happening you're screaming with tears pouring down your cheeks. Somewhere along the line your half-drunk father storms upstairs, takes you by the shoulders and shakes you hard, shouting at you right in your face to shut up and stop embarrassing him. But you can't stop, you _can't_. He grows impatient and slaps you across the face and it shuts you up immediately. He goes back downstairs again. Frightened and completely heartbroken, you run to your bedroom and lie in bed for the rest of the day, covering your ears and squeezing your eyes shut, using every ounce of your imagination to feel your mother's arms around you, and hear the beat of her heart to lull you into a peaceful slumber.

You're eight years old, and you're sat in unfamiliar, brightly coloured room. There are posters on the walls that mostly bear positive and uplifting slogans, and there are toys. Racecars and dolls and building blocks, even a little train set, but you turn your nose up at them. You don't really play with toys, one of many reasons why kids seem to think you're an alien. Sat across from you is a nice lady that up until now you'd never met before. She brought you here from the playground where you were sat alone, and you just ignore the titters and the giggles because despite your sensitive nature, you're growing used to it. She introduces herself as Claire McMillan and invites you to simply call her Claire, but you immediately opt for Ms. McMillan. Your mother taught you that this was the proper way to address a grown-up, unless they were a long-time family friend. She begins to ask all sorts of questions, among them are: _Do you get on well with your dad? How are you finding school? Are you always alone?_ You answer them honestly, as lying makes you feel uneasy. Ms. McMillan talks to your father on the phone, and he sounds angry. After that, you have weekly sessions.

You're nine years old, and your father decides to teach you how to be a man. He's never quite been the same since your mother died, you only ever see him acting cold and distant. You find more bottles and cans lying around than you used to, bearing names of brands that you know are some kind of alcohol. One night he sits you down, gives you a shot of whiskey to drink. You drink it without hesitation, just wanting to please your father... but you are violently sick about a minute later. Now, looking back, you realise that this was probably the first time that your father realised he would never have his idea of a perfect son.

You're ten years old, and you get caught with your father's gun. Immediately, you panic and start to babble. "I'm sorry, Dad, I wasn't going to use it! I just wanted to see how it works!" As he often does these days, he takes this the wrong way. That following weekend, he takes you on your first (and so far only) hunting trip. He shoots a deer, just to show you how it's done... and you swear you see all hope he ever had for you disappear from his eyes when you burst into tears, begging to help the poor animal. You spend the rest of your trip huddled in the back of the van, pressing your hands over your ears to block out the gunshots. When your father opens the doors and throws in two dead deer, you plead with him to let you out... but of course, he doesn't. He leaves you in the back with the carcasses, and you can't bear to look at them. To this day, death still haunts you. When you finally arrive home after a long, traumatic day - your father grabs you and starts screaming about how you'll _never_ be a man, and you're _nothing_ but a _disappointment_.

You're twelve years old, and you've been at your new school for a year. You much prefer these lessons, especially the maths and the science. They discover that you in fact have a genius IQ, and when word gets out the other kids call you names. 'Boffin' and 'Brainbox' are among them, and another favourite is 'Curly'. You try not to let it bother you, taking comfort in the fact that no matter what your father says, your mother would be proud of you. Despite the relentless bullying, you now have three friends - all of you are the outcasts of the school, and as they call it, 'at the bottom of the food chain'. As always, girls don't talk to you. This bothers you more than bullying. You don't want a girlfriend, but you crave affection from females. It's probably a deep-rooted issue linked to the death of your mother, now that you think about it.

You're fifteen years old, scrambling for your notebook and something to write with so you can pen the best dream you've had in years. For a few seconds you thought it wasn't real, just a fake, imagined memory - but now you're remembering more about that day, and there's a big smile on your face as you frantically scribble it down. It was a few days after you turned six, before your mother became too ill to live at home with you and your father. He was away, probably on a business meeting. Wanting to spend some quality time with her little boy in the great outdoors, your mother took you out on a hike. You walked for hours, and you were so happy and excited to see it all that you never even complained when your little legs got tired. Not once. Your mother had to sit down to catch her breath frequently, but you never minded. You would just sit with her, taking it all in. You still remember the bite of the cool air, and the tiny little stream that you happily splashed through while your mother laughed and took pictures. It was one of the last perfect days you can remember having.

You're eighteen years old, and you're a straight-A student. You have a clear interest in weapons and technology, engineering has really become your forte over the years. You can't help but find the world so _fascinating_, and every day you just want to find out more.

You're still eighteen years old, out of breath as you lie in bed. You don't even know the name of the girl in bed beside you, and she's already half asleep. Immediately you decide that everything was just a drunk mistake, and instead of wallowing you just get up and put on some clothes, turning on your desk lamp so you can continue to disassemble the pistol your professor gave you as a side project.

You're nineteen years old, out on a walk to clear your head when you find her. A redheaded young woman, dressed in what you can only describe as 'spy gear'. But that doesn't register in your head yet, you're just seeing a hurt young woman that needs your help. Currently, you're living alone in a flat you're renting with borrowed money. Almost instinctively you take her in your arms and carry her all the way home, just thankful that you don't run into anyone on the way as this would probably look very suspicious. You lie her down on the threadbare old sofa, treat her wounds (thankfully, they aren't serious), and you find what looks like some sort of comm. link. Seems to be badly broken. Just as she wakes up about an hour later, you've got it working again. As you expected, she reacts negatively to you. Takes off immediately, but stops to grab the comm. link and slam your head against the wall for your trouble.

You're still nineteen years old, and the day after you find the young woman there's a knock on the door. Still holding an ice pack to your head (what can you say, it bloody hurt), you answer it and standing before you is a man in a dark suit. You can honestly say that you've never seen this man before in your life, but for whatever reason he seems to know who you are. Not quite knowing what to do, you let him in. He sits down, and begins to talk to you. Tells you his name, Agent Phil Coulson, and the organisation he works for - S.H.I.E.L.D.: Strategic Homeland Invervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. He explains that the person he helped yesterday was one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most highly trained field agents, something had probably gone wrong which left her injured and unconscious with a broken comm. link. "We were all very impressed when she told us that a civillian fixed it for her... it's pretty top of the line tech." At this, you get excited - you always get carried away when it comes to what you do best. You explain exactly how you fixed it, going into great detail and your confidence only grows as you notice how intently he's listening.

You're _still_ nineteen years old, and you've just returned to your childhood home for the first time in years. Your father hasn't been expecting you, which is probably why he's passed out drunk on the sofa. Of course, you know better than to even think about waking him, or helping him into bed. You go straight upstairs, thinking about Agent Coulson's words. _I've been informed that S.H.I.E.L.D. are very interested in you, and they'd like to offer you a place in the training academy. It's in the US, so it'd probably be quite the upheaval for you. However, we'll pay for your travel and you can live in the dorms with other students. You're actually younger than the people we'd normally offer this chance to, but you've clearly got something special._ "Brand new chance... brand new start..." you murmur softly, heading up to your old bedroom and packing as much as you can. You find an old video tape, simply labelled 'Leo's Bed-Time' in your mother's handwriting with a date. You pack it. For sentimental value you take the small box of your mother's things you have hidden under the bed. Just as you open the front door to leave, your father wakes up.

"Son?"

You pause in the doorway, just for a second. You then leave and close the door behind you. To this day, you've never looked back.

You've just turned twenty years old, and it's your first day at the academy. The change between Scotland and America is a bit of a culture shock that you're still not used to, but for now you put it aside to focus on your fresh start. You walk into the lab and notice that everybody already has a partner, excluding one girl in the corner. The professor, a friendly man with a beard greets you with gusto. Of course, he sends you off to work with the partnerless girl, 'Queenie', explaining to you that it's also her first proper day at the academy. As soon as you sit down beside her, she rolls her eyes and turns to you. "Please, ignore Professor Anders. He calls me Queenie because I'm British."

"Oh, great. What's he gonna call me, Haggis?"

She snorts. "I wouldn't put it past him!" A smile spreads across her lips and she holds out a hand for you to shake, which you accept. "I'm Jemma. Jemma Simmons."

"Leo Fitz."

"Fitz-Simmons!" the professor calls out. "You'll find the apparatus you need in the cupboard over there, Jones-Redwood'll show you how to set up."

You're twenty-one years old, and you're much more used to things now. You've settled in remarkably well at the academy, and you and Simmons are causing quite the buzz around the place due to being the youngest students (and you just so happen to be geniuses in your fields). To say that you've met a girl as smart as Simmons before would be an outright lie - a twenty-one year old biochemist with two PhD's was beyond impressive. Not to mention her incredible knowledge of _Doctor Who_. You're flourishing in your new environment, the only thing you're struggling with is the mandatory lessons in combat. Your saving grace is Simmons, who struggles along with you. As the months go by, you learn more and more S.H.I.E.L.D.. That includes 'legends' such as The Cavalry, Hawkeye, and Black Widow. When you casually mention that you helped her before coming to the academy (before you even properly know who she is), this just makes you even more popular. Simmons is with you when you see the first footage of a man in a metal suit, and as you watch the infamous _Tony Stark_ admit to being 'Iron Man' live on television, you both squeal like schoolgirls and fangirl together throughout the night.

You're twenty-two years old, and planning a prank with Simmons. You're both straight-laced goody-goody students, it just looks like so much _fun_. Besides, you both finished Professor Hall's chemical kinetics paper early. The prank ends up involving two strippers and a very traumatised group of professors, as well as elevating you both to 'legendary prankster' status. Life is good - no, life is _great_ for you both. You haven't felt so happy, so _at home_ in years. You finally have the best friend you've always longed for - and rumours are constantly flying around. Some say you're dating, others say you're not. Really, you're just as close as you possibly can be without crossing the line betweeen best friends and couple. It's as if you're siblings with a hint of 'old married couple' dynamic - you bicker sometimes but it never lasts long. People now just refer to you both as 'Fitzsimmons', using pronouns to make you sound like you're one person. It irritated you both at first, but now you secretly love it.

You're still twenty-two years old, and you're having a Skype chat with Simmons and her parents. She talked you into it, as she'd told them a fair bit about her 'best friend, Leo' and as a result they wanted to meet you. You all talk for about two hours - mercifully, they don't ask about your family. Before you know what's what, you're even been invited to spend Christmas with them. As you watch the Simmons family laughing and chatting together, you knows that this is what a real family looks like.

You're twenty-three years old, and Simmons has come back to your dorm with you after a party. Your fingers are intertwined, and for a while, you're peaceful. She giggled every so often, a sound that warmed his heart. You began to talk, and before long both of you very drunkenly begin to pour your hearts out to each other. You tell her about losing your mother at the age of seven, the way your father would scream and shout at you when you did something wrong, and the taunts of the bullies that still haunt you to this day. She tells you about the pressure she felt growing up to be perfect, even when her parents told her that they would always love her no matter what, and how her heartbreakingly loyal nature had led to her being exploited, bullied, and worse in the past. Worst of all is when she tells you about how an older boy, a trusted family friend had told her that everything was okay as he touched her, a frightened little girl to scared to say no. You end up just crying and holding each other until you fall asleep that way, a tangle of limbs with a bond now stronger than it ever has been.

You're twenty-four years old, and it's crazy how much things have changed. You and Simmons were both chosen to graduate the S.H.I.E.L.D. Training Academy _three years early_. They attempt to separate you straight away - partnerships at the academy are for the academy only. However, it becomes immediately apparent that you can't cope without each other. Simmons begins to slowly unravel without you, and your childhood anxiety comes back with a vengeance. Not to mention the crippling loneliness you both experience. Before long, 'Fitzsimmons' are reunited and end up in a special branch of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Sci Ops Division. You're happy where you are, in the lab together. For a while, everything is perfect.

You're still twenty-four years old when you tell Simmons how much you love monkeys. She laughs. "I'm not surprised, you're just like a little monkey!" You still don't really get why she thinks that, but you love it.

You're twenty-five years old, and the most insane thing in the world has just happened. You, Simmons, and a few other members of Sci Ops are staring, wide-eyed and transfixed at the screen as New York is _attacked by aliens_... and saved by Iron Man, Captain America (Simmons is driving everybody crazy trying to figure out how in the name of all things good and holy Steve Rogers can possibly be alive and appearing to be in his twenties), a Norse God that none of you can identify, Hawkeye, Black Widow, and a gigantic green _monster_. You feel Simmons grip your hand tightly as you watch Iron Man fly into the portal in the sky, and when he falls back to Earth and all seems as well as it can be, you all cheer and Simmons pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. This is the first time you've felt any kind of tension between you, and it isn't the last. When you break apart, the only thing you can talk about is how _desperate_ you are to get down there and study the life-forms and their weaponry.

You're twenty-six years old, and you've just come out of a meeting with Agent Coulson. He wants you both in the field. You've already made up your mind - it's a solid no. Simmons, however, is on the other end of the spectrum. "Come on Fitz, it'll be fun!" are words you _never_ want to hear come out of her mouth ever again. Eventually, however, you let her convince you (despite the fact that neither of you are cleared for combat). With someone like _The Cavalry_ on the team, you know deep down that you and Simmons have been chosen for a reason.

Besides, what could possibly go wrong?

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**Please, don't forget to review! Constructive criticism is _very_ much appreciated!**


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